


Stars

by elimiac



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asian Character(s), Chinese-Canadian, Identity, Struggle to find one's identity, The affect of words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimiac/pseuds/elimiac
Summary: A man tells his story about his struggle with finding his identity.





	Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a short story I wrote for school.

An identity is how one defines oneself. To do that, one needs words to communicate. I identify as Chinese-Canadian. However, _Canadian_ often is lost on the ears of others. To certain people, I am only Chinese for how can I, who was born and raised in Vancouver, ever be considered Canadian?

Isn't it amazing how some words can be cut out –– _just like that_ –– and change the entire meaning? How it can affect an individual?

If I can understand anything, I can certainly understand that.

–––––––

I was seven years old when I first visited the hometown of my grandparents at a family reunion. I was the only person who couldn’t speak Mandarin. I could pick up a few words, but everyone was talking rapidly and loudly.

I remember sitting alone at a table, watching the centrepiece candle flame flicker. My father had tried to introduce me to everyone but their names and faces passed over my head. I gazed longingly at the other children, wishing I could at least understand what they said so I can play with them.

Across from me, two elderly women were chatting with each other. From what I understood, they were gossiping.

“The poor boy, sitting there all alone,” one of them sighed. “I wonder why Mei-Mei or Kevin didn’t teach him any Mandarin.”

I blushed and anxiously scanned the room for my parents. I didn’t want to sit here while they gossiped about me.

“I heard, it’s because he's American. Americans hate the foreigners there and demand that all of them speak American.”

I finally spotted my father, who was talking with three other men. I locked eyes with him, silently pleading for him to rescue me from their scrutinizing and judgemental gazes.

“I always tell my children and grandchildren, that you cannot call yourself Chinese if you can’t speak the language.”

My heart thudded in my chest. Tears sprung in my eyes. Without looking at the two elderly women, I ran towards my father, uncaring that he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Excuse me, I’m think he’s just tired from the jet lag. I'll take him out for some air.” my father smiled politely at the men. He picked me up in his arms and started walking.

“Dad, can we go home?”I mumbled into his shoulder as he pushed open a door.

“To the hotel? Evan, the night is still young and there is still plenty to eat and plenty of people to talk to.” he chuckled lightly.

We were outside of the venue hall. The streets had lanterns and some shops had bright lights that illuminated the area we were in. I looked up at the sky.

“Look! The stars look so different than back home,” I pointed upwards.

My father followed my gaze and pointed finger. He smiled. “Yes, aren’t they a sight?”

I nodded happily.

"The stars are like spilled milk, scattering the sky with its beauty." my father mused.

I frowned, confused by his words. "What do you mean by that, Dad?"

"We, as the stars, are spilled across the universe, in our own place."

–––––––

_"So, what are you?"_

I was twenty-three, buying groceries at the supermarket near my dorm residence. It seemed like everywhere I went, this excruciating reminder that I –– a human without a light complexion, hair, and eye colour of an individual with European descent –– could not escape the uncomfortable and accusing stare of curious eyes, simply because they could not accept 'Canadian' as an answer to their question. Suddenly, I was well too aware of my racing heartbeat.

"No, son," the middle-aged man insisted while scanning a loaf of bread and placing it in a reusable bag. "I mean, where are you from originally? What country is your family from? Asia?China? Japan?"

I pursed my lips. It was getting difficult to breathe properly. A million thoughts and scenarios rushed through my mind as I debated with myself whether or not I should correct the man on his blatant ignorance or relent and respond with _the answer he wanted_ to speed up my escape of this conversation.

I glanced at the woman in line behind me, a bored expression on her face as she tapped continuously on her smartphone, waiting for me to pay and receive my receipt. Other than her and a worker stocking aisle shelves, there was no one else in the grocery store. I took a deep and calming breath. Excellent. A small enough audience.

_Pardon me, sir, Asia is a continent with several diverse ethnicities. And, while my grandparents emigrated from China, my father and I were born in this country. Therefore, I identify myself as a_ Canadian _._

The well-planned verse that was always at the back of my mind, choked up in my throat, refusing to be proclaimed to the world. As I blinked back tears in my eyes, the man raised his eyebrow at me.

“You do know how to speak English," he pursed his lips. "Right?”

_It's the only language I know._

“Yes, of course,” I replied, nodding slowly. I internally sighed with resignation and caved after another moment. “I’m Chinese.”

The man promptly nodded back in response, satisfied. He remained unaware that his question had affected me greatly. “That’s interesting, I thought you looked more-“

I grimaced. _Because all Asians look the same, right?_

“Well, anyways,” the man shrugged, finally ending the conversation. “Your total is $17.81. Cash or card?”

–––––––

It broke me to know that I was 'too' Chinese to be Canadian and 'too' Westernized to be Chinese. All of my life, I struggled with finding my identity. I had forgotten my father's words about each and every one on this Earth having our own place in the universe. I had forgotten my identity.

However, after many years of soul searching in my early twenties, I finally found the missing piece of my heart: self-acceptance. I accepted that I am Chinese-Canadian. I reconciled the war between the two fighting sides of my identity. I learned how to hold a conversation in Mandarin, although, not fluently. I learned about the history of China from my grandfather and related and compared China's history with Canada's to gain a better understanding of both. I learned how to incorporate my culture into my daily life, never 'being' only Canadian or Chinese.

Now, I have a wife and two beautiful girls. I teach my daughters how to greet their grandparents in Mandarin and how to cook family recipes that I had learnt from my own grandmother. I teach them how to play baseball. My eldest, Jade, is her group leader at Girl Guides.

One day, all four of us went camping, huddled up in blankets, sat around a fire and were mesmerized by the night sky. Jade, my youngest daughter, had expressed her struggle at school and fitting in with her peers.

"Look at the stars," I said, pointing upwards. " _The stars are like spilt milk, scattering the sky with its beauty._ There's no specific arrangement. Each star has its place."

"What do you mean by that, Dad?" Jasmine echoed my seven-year-old self.

"Yes, what do you mean by that, Evan," my wife asked with a questioning gaze.

I smiled lovingly at my family. "You may not feel as if you belong, as if you don't know your identity. But, eventually, you will. You will learn how to accept yourself and you will find yourself. Do you know why?"

"No," Jade and Jasmine shook their heads.

_"Because, we, as the stars, are spilled across the universe in our own place."_


End file.
